


Jaskier, Eternal

by ffonippop



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (british accent) or maybe....its mental illness innit, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anorexia, Body Image, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Support, Eventual recovery, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Happy Ending, Hurt Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Insecure Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecurity, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Purging, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Teen Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Therapy, Triggers, What Have I Done, i promise jaskier does have some, recovery and relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffonippop/pseuds/ffonippop
Summary: To choose to recover is to choose to live. Jaskier is choosing to live.Jaskier has suffered from an eating disorder since even before he was a teenager, and after the realization that he is slowly dying hits him like a ton of bricks, Jaskier chooses to try to do better for himself.But recovery is paved with relapses and pain. The best he can do is try and hope that one day, trying won't hurt so much as it does now.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 27
Kudos: 290





	Jaskier, Eternal

**Author's Note:**

> hi ok yes!! i have an ED and i just wanted to vent it out and everything u know. just tell my experiences through jaskier :) 
> 
> BUT if you havent read the tags!! please do!! because this is very serious and covers mature topics. here are some more trigger warnings for characters just in case though :)
> 
> jaskier triggers: bulimia nervosa, purging, restricting, starvation, passive suicidal ideology, suicidal thoughts, ED relapse, thoughts of self harm, passing out, peer-pressured into eating, skewed thoughts about being thin, explicit description of his body image, extreme insecurity, self hatred, self sabotage, mention of being disgusted by food, calorie counting
> 
> cirilla triggers: anorexia nervosa, restricting, mention of loss of apetite
> 
> yennefer triggers: depression, past suicidal thoughts, implied/referenced self harm, implied/referenced suicide attempt, harmless drinking (meaning she does drink alcohol but not to harm herself), very brief mention of childhood trauma, abuse, and neglect
> 
> general triggers not covered in just one character: thoughts of blood and gore, thin body parts described in explicit detail
> 
> please read at your own caution  
> the NEDA hotline can be contacted at 800-931-2237  
> the national suicide prevention lifeline can be contacted at 800-273-8255
> 
> okok thats it happy reading ily very much!  
> \- alyssa

Jaskier starts hating his body at age twelve. 

He realizes he has a problem when he's twenty-five, looking at the mirror, and finding himself wishing he could open up his stomach and pull out all his guts. Wishing he could just be empty.

The thought disturbs him. 

Jaskier wants to be a lot of things, that's just how it's always been for him. He knows what he wants, and he wants to be small and bony and thin and void, but while he knows what he wants, he also knows what he _doesn't_ want. 

Jaskier does not want to die. 

It's an epiphany in those moments as he regards what he has become with horrified eyes. He looks like he's barely there. He looks like he's one fall away from death. He looks like everything he didn't want to be when he was a child.

Jaskier stares at what's become of his body, and he wants to _recover_.

* * *

He seeks out a therapist and finds one he he likes. 

Her name is Triss Merigold, and she has a beautiful smile. She laughs sweetly, and her stares can get judgy, but Jaskier knows she means well.

He allows her to attempt to take care of him, because Jaskier knows he won't be the one to do it. 

On his third session with her, Triss says something that makes Jaskier stop and stare at his reflection for days on end, tracing the sickly looking bumps in his skin where bones jut out in ways they are not supposed to. 

"Every second you spend starving yourself," Triss had said, a stern look in her bright eyes, "is a second you spend dying."

He deletes his calorie counting app and stops his obsessive running.

* * *

When Triss says, "There's gratification in the small things," though, Jaskier is almost certain she didn't mean for the small things to be his body.

There's gratification in small things. His thoughts warp the meaning of Triss's words until it's just another excuse to starve himself, to continue dying. 

He starts wrapping his fingers around his wrists again. He smiles when he can touch his thumb and pinky around his arms easily. There is gratification in small things. 

He re-downloads his calorie counting app and traces his ribs with gentle fingers. He likes how his skin touches bone without any fat in between.

There is gratification in the small things.

There is gratification in being small.

Jaskier likes how small he has gotten. 

* * *

"Your relapses do not erase your progress," a stranger calls from the outside of Jaskier's stall. 

He is sobbing, the toilet has just flushed, and there's bile around his mouth and toilet seat. He spits into the toilet and flushes it again.

Weakly, he lets out a raspy, "Thank you."

The sweet voice answers back, "My pleasure. I've been there. It gets better."

Jaskier coughs. "I could use a little better."

"It's easier to get than you'd think." Footsteps echo around the empty restroom and a pair of small combat boots stop in front of Jaskier's locked stall.

He cannot help but stiffen as the owner of the combat boots kneels down and slides a card on the tile to Jaskier. Reluctantly, Jaskier picks up the card. 

> **National Eating Disorders Association**
> 
> Live Helpline ~ Telephone Number: 800-931-2237Hours (PST): Monday through Friday: 8:30am-4:30pm
> 
> **National Suicide Prevention Lifeline**
> 
> 800-273-8255 

He smiles at the card and feels — _finally feels_ — exhausted. The combat boots are walking away with rhythmic clicking on the floor tiles and before the stranger opens the door and leaves, they turn back for just the smallest sliver of a moment.

The voice whispers, "It'll get better. All you need to do is be alive for it to happen."

And with that, they are gone.

Jaskier stares at the card and fishes out his phone from his pocket.

The voice on the other line says something, but Jaskier can barely hear it over his own voice, raspy and gross.

"Hello," he greets hollowly. "I am Jaskier. I have just finished purging in the restroom of a restaurant, and I think I think I want to live."

* * *

He deletes Tumblr. He deletes Snapchat. He unfollows Instagram accounts that make him insecure. He feels his protruding hipbones and tries to convince himself that being empty is not pretty. 

He follows the recovery tag. 

The recovery tag is full of pictures of food, of people celebrating their newly found healthy lifestyles. Jaskier thinks it's wonderful that people have recovered. But the pictures are too much.

It makes him want to throw up. 

He resists because _he wants to live_.

He joins a support group. 

They have him stand behind a podium and wide, hopeful eyes stare up at him expectantly. He wants to throw up. He wants to live. 

"Hello, I am Jaskier, and I have bulimia nervosa."

In unison, the support group members smile reassuringly up at him, and they return, "Hello, Jaskier."

He wants to throw up. He wants to live. 

He says this out loud.

"I want to throw up. I want to live."

He feels better coming out of the meeting, no matter how nerve wracking it felt to be behind that podium.

He meets fourteen year old Cirilla, anorexia nervosa. His heart aches at how young she is. But she wants to starve and she wants to live. 

* * *

His friends are well-meaning, but they don't understand.

He's drunk one night at some stupid house party and confides in one of his friends — Katrina de Stael.

He tells her about how happy he gets when he can feel his bones beneath his skin, when his stomach growls at him, when he feels light as a feather. He's drunk, so he speaks.

He is not nearly drunk enough when she drives them both out of the party and to a fast food restaurant. 

There's a common misconception about being drunk, and that is: when you're drunk, you may do things you regret or say things that you meant to stay secrets, but you rarely ever forget what happened. 

Jaskier wishes he forgot what happened.

Katrina orders him a burger. She watches as he eats. Jaskier feels sick. 

"I want to throw up." He does not want to live.

"I don't get it!" Katrina growls, and he knows she is almost as drunk as he is, otherwise she wouldn't snap at him like that, but it still hurts. "Just eat!"

Jaskier shoves the rest of the burger in his mouth and chews, feeling like he's eating lead. He likes the taste of the food and that only makes it worse.

He opens his mouth to prove to her he swallowed and she nods approvingly, finally agreeing to drive him home. 

The moment he gets home, he worships his toilet and gives it the alcohol he drank and bread he swallowed. He wanted to throw up. He is not sure if he wants to live. 

He passes out right there. 

He misses the support group meeting and his therapy session with Triss.

* * *

Urgent knocks awake him from his sleep. 

Jaskier tries and fails to put up his usual charming smile. He weakly drags himself to the door and opens it to find a man, with bleach blond hair and knitted together eyebrows. Jaskier blinks slowly. 

"Do I know you?"

"My daughter's in the car," the man says. The answer makes no sense, until it does. 

"Oh!" Jaskier exclaims. "You're Ciri's dad!"

He feels disgusting under the man's intense gaze. Jaskier is still dressed in last night's clothes, the front of his shirt stained with dried bile. His eyeliner has dried in wet strokes down his sickly cheeks, and his hair is tousled from sleeping on the bathroom mat. 

He knows he reeks of alcohol and vomit. He can feel his hipbones through his jeans, but he does not feel pretty. 

"I'm not going to let her see you like this," Ciri's father announces, voice deep and assertive.

Jaskier cringes. "Yeah," he breathes, and he does his best at keeping the insecurity out of his voice. "Probably for the best."

He waits for Ciri's father to leave, but the man only looks at him expectantly.

"Well?" Ciri's father asks, arching an eyebrow. "Go shower, we'll wait in your living room. I'll tell her you overslept."

Jaskier blinks, surprised. "I thought you didn't want her to see me?"

The man shakes his head. "Not the way you are right now. Wash up. I'll get her."

Jaskier nods stiffly. "Okay. Uhm... help yourselves to anything. Sorry there's not much... well, food." Jaskier chuckles. 

Jaskier swears he sees the slightest bit of an amused smile grace the man's lips. The man turns, presumably to get his daughter and Jaskier dashes to his bathroom and takes a quick shower. 

When Jaskier exits the shower, Ciri is there, letting out a breath of relief. "Oh, thank the _gods_ you're okay."

Jaskier laughs. He looks at Ciri's father, sitting at the farthest side of the couch in the living room and smiles.

"Just overslept is all," he lies. 

* * *

He catches Ciri's father — Ciri tells him the name of the man is Geralt — at the end of one of the support group meetings. Jaskier manages to steal just a bit of time alone with Geralt when Ciri hangs back to talk with another member. 

"I'm sorry you had to see me like that," Jaskier apologizes sincerely, eyes fixed on his shoes. 

Geralt just hums. On his hand is a coffee cup from Starbucks that Jaskier knows has fifty calories. He does not point this out and suffers in the silent atmosphere he has created. 

Then Geralt sighs and in his deep, gruff voice, he says, "Ciri said you were getting better."

A pang of guilt rings out in Jaskier's head. Geralt continues. 

"Whatever made you get back to... doing _that_. Sorry." Geralt fixes Jaskier with a sympathetic look, and Jaskier tries not to cry. "You deserve to be happy."

Ciri skips back to them and in a second, father and daughter are off, walking back to Geralt's Hummer. Jaskier stares after them and looks down to his hands. He thinks on Geralt's words.

He deserves to be happy. 

Jaskier blocks Katrina's number. She means well, but she's not what Jaskier needs right now. He drives back home in contemplative silence. He deserves to be happy.

* * *

He plasters up quotes and pictures all over his office walls. 

Pictures of things that make him happy, like dandelions and buttercups and sunshine and light and freckles and the color yellow and sheet music that show the notes to his favorite song. 

There are quotes he likes about recovery all over, some in sticky notes and others printed on large boards. 

His favorite one is, "Then you hold life like a face between your palms, a plain face, no charming smile, no violet eyes, and you say, yes, I will take you I will love you, again." Ellen Brass. 

One of the sticky notes is on the small mirror next to the door so he reads it every time he leaves his house. It says, "As the image of myself becomes sharper in my brain and more precious, I feel less afraid that someone else will erase me by denying me love." Jenny Slate.

Another one is placed on the dashboard of his car. It's a piece of a poem, he thinks. He doesn't really know. It's spaced out like a poem, and it reads, "Wildflower; pick up your pretty little head,/It will get easier, your dreams are not dead." Nikki Rowe

The card given to him by that stranger all those years ago is still tucked between his phone and case. 

Jaskier recites the poem as he drives to his support group. He sees Geralt and Ciri and they wave him over. Jaskier looks better now, and he no longer feels ugly under Geralt's stare like the first time they'd met with dried vomit dripping down his shirt.

Ciri makes small talk and laughs with Jaskier before skipping to another member. Jaskier stares softly at Geralt. 

"You're a good dad," he praises, smiling.

Geralt seems taken aback by the compliment, but he softens up, too. "I've had to learn."

Jaskier grins. "I'd say you're doing pretty well for yourself."

Geralt looks him up and down and smiles. "You look happier."

Jaskier snorts. "I know we've only had, like, six conversations, but you helped a lot."

Geralt smiles again, looking back to his daughter, laughing with a group of teens a little older than her. "I've had to learn that, too. Ciri... she needs reminders like you do." 

There's a comfortable silence.

Jaskier thinks before he digs into his pocket and pulls out a sticky note. There's a quote on there, but it's the only scrap of paper he has, so he digs out a pen and writes his number, ignoring the questioning stare Geralt threw his way. 

"Here," Jaskier hands. "Just in case you need a second person reminding her she deserves to be happy. Someone she can, uhm, relate more to."

Geralt smiles and nods, staring down at the note. He reads the quote Jaskier had written for himself out loud. “ 'Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I will try again tomorrow.' Mary Anne Radmacher."

Jaskier grins sheepishly. "It helps, knowing what other artists have to say," he explains even though Geralt has not asked for an explanation. 

Geralt chuckles. He takes his phone out of his pocket and types a period before sending. Jaskier feels his phone vibrate against his thigh.

"Now you have mine," Geralt says. "Don't be afraid to call if you need anything. Might not be able to always relate, but... well, I'll do what I can."

Jaskier smiles. He gives a thanks and begins to walk back to Ciri. The support group is starting to begin it's meeting. 

He spares a glance back at Geralt and he feels full. 

* * *

His worst days in recovery are better than his best days in relapse. 

Jaskier paces around his bedroom and shoots a long suffering look at the adjacent bathroom door. He wants to live. He resist the urge to touch his prominent collarbones. He knows if he touches, he'll either like how easily he can touch them or hate it. He fears finding out. 

He's so aware of his own body and it hurts. 

He sees his legs. His knobbly knees. His thigh gap. His bony feet. They are not nearly where he wants them to be. He wants to be nothing but skin and bone. 

He sees his hips. He sees bumps where bones and skin have nothing separating them. He sees his skin stretched out over his bones. 

He sees his ribs. Feels every movement of his shoulders and shoulder blades. Feels where his spine has grown so prominent it's almost like there's no skin at all. Sees his cheekbones. Sunken eyes. Misery.

He wants to get better. He wants to get worse. 

And he feels like he's twenty-five again, wishing he could open up his stomach and dig around his insides and pull out his guts. He wants to be empty.

The thought disturbs him so much he has to tear his gaze away from his body and scramble for his phone. He does not want to talk to Triss. He wants to talk to a friend. He has Katrina's number blocked. 

He calls Geralt. He talks. He tells.

"Can you drive?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier nods, even though he knows Geralt can't see. "Yes," he breathes.

"Drive to my house. Do you want me to prepare some food?"

Jaskier thinks. He hesitates. "I... please."

* * *

Geralt's house is decorated with pictures. Lots of them. Most of them with Ciri, some of them with so many other people. There's a chart in the kitchen, a calendar looking thing.

It's labeled _Ciri's Daily Vibe._

Most of the days are crossed out green. Others are blue. Some are a harsh red. There are notes next to them. _Ate!_ one reads. _No appetite_ , another comments. _Bad day_ , the red one marks.

"I had one of those trackers," Jaskier says to Geralt, nodding at the chart. "One of those counting ones. 'Blank days since Jaskier relapsed.' Did more harm than good."

Geralt hums and passes Jaskier a bowl of pasta he'd warmed up from dinner earlier. "We try not to chart things that delete progress," he says conversationally. 

Jaskier swallows some of the food down. He's glad to see Geralt is not staring at him eat. He is encouraged to eat more by the simple fact that he's not being forced. 

"So, what's up?" Geralt asks finally. 

Jaskier huffs a laugh between small bites. "Bad day."

* * *

Triss fixes him with a stare. 

"You're angry."

Jaskier snorts humorlessly. "Not at you, don't worry."

She looks down at a clipboard. "At what?"

"Myself?" It comes out as a question. He means it to be definite. "I can't... I don't know why I can't just fucking _eat_. Like real, actual, normal people. I _want_ to do it but I can't bring myself to." 

Frustration seeps into his words. He wishes Triss weren't so good at making him talk because the moment he does, he can't stop. Triss knows this, so she keeps quiet. 

"I can't—" Jaskier groans irritably into his hands. "Every little thing is a trigger, Triss. I look at ice cream and I don't think, _'Oh! What a tasty treat!'_ I think, _'Ice cream? Yeah, that comes back up pretty easy!'_ I see water — fucking _water_ , Triss — and I think, _'Yeah, better drink lots of that before and after heavy meals so I can vomit it up without a hitch!'_ "

Jaskier sighs, long suffering. "I'm _tired_ , Triss. I'm _exhausted_ and I'm _spent_. I feel like I've lived twelve lives, and it feels like that's _twelve too many_."

Triss puts down the clipboard and breathes in sharply.

"Jaskier," she starts, and her voice does not shake but Jaskier is too much of a musician to not notice the unsteadiness in her tone, "are you suicidal?"

Jaskier almost jumps. "I—" His voice shakes. "Triss... what?"

Triss's gaze is fixed right on him, unyielding. A little bit afraid. "Are you suicidal?" She repeats, and in his chest, Jaskier's heart beats.

"I don't want to die," Jaskier answers, voice a frail whisper. "I don't want to die."

Triss nods tersely. "Do you want to live?"

Jaskier stays silent for a long moment. "I don't want to die." 

"Jaskier...."

He gulps. He talks.

"I— I don't know?" He stutters out, combing a shaky hand through his hair. "I don't want to kill myself? I don't— Triss, I don't want to kill myself. I just... I want to not wake up sometimes. Sometimes, I wish the starvation catches up with me? And— And I won't do it, I know I won't, but—" 

He stops. He tastes salt on his lips. He's crying. 

Triss gives him a moment to wipe his tears. She nods, writes something down, and asks, "Do you think you're better off dead, Jaskier?"

Jaskier blinks. "I— Sometimes."

Triss does not say anything. There's a moment of silence before she asks again, "You don't want to kill yourself?"

This time, Jaskier is sure. "I don't."

It's just sometimes, Jaskier wants to throw up. And it's just sometimes, he does not want to live. 

* * *

"She gave me a plan," Jaskier tells Geralt when they are on a morning walk around the park. 

Jaskier holds a cup of coffee from Starbucks in his hand. Geralt holds an energy drink. Geralt hums, questioning.

"She says I have passive suicidal ideation," Jaskier confirms, having been able to decode Geralt's hums and grunts and sighs in the month they'd known each other. "So she gave me a plan."

"What plan?"

Jaskier sips from his cup. "There are steps. Or, like... goals? I guess? Things to do when I feel that way."

"Explain it to me?" 

Geralt sits on a cold and slightly wet metal bench. He pats the space next to him, laying out a jacket over the water drops so Jaskier can sit comfortably. Jaskier grins and sits as well.

"Step one is learning how to cope," he explains. "She got me to write down healthy coping mechanisms and outlets. Then step two is distractions, or, well. People I can talk to, to distract myself. I don't need to tell them anything about my emotions or therapy, I just have to hang out with them to make myself feel better. And then step four is confiding. Talking to someone about my mental health and whatnot. Actually telling them, you know, _'Hey, it seems I'm suicidal!'_ Then the last step I think is contact professionals."

Geralt has a faraway look in his eyes, sides of his lips quirked upwards as he stares at Jaskier like he is the proudest he's ever been.

"I'm glad you're reaching out," he smiles. And then, "I'm proud of you."

Almost immediately, Jaskier feels the praise wash over him, feels his heart soar at words so reassuring he didn't even know he needed them until they were uttered. He feels... infinite. Like he could live forever. Like he deserved to live forever. 

He feels elation. He feels...

Happy.

* * *

"No... no." Jaskier whispers under his breath as he paces on the cold tile of the blur between late night and early morning. He looks at the toilet, pristine and white. "Don't do it... don't...."

He bites his knuckles. "Don't do it. Don't do it."

He holds his breath until he can't anymore and rushes out the door. He grabs his coat and keys and makes a drive to Geralt's house. 

The drive there makes him guilty.

It's not that Geralt has ever made Jaskier guilty for coming to him for help. It's just... things have changed between them in the eight months they'd known each other. 

They'd just started dating three months ago, and Jaskier really did not want to mess this relationship up with his problems, like he did the past one or two or seven relationships before this one. 

But this problem was important. He doesn't want to relapse. 

Jaskier parks in Geralt's driveway. He rings the doorbell. 

It isn't Geralt who greets him. 

She stands in front of him, tall and thin and beautiful. Her lips are plump, her eyes a brilliant violet, and her nose stuck up, like the disheveled Jaskier is nothing but a piece of gum stuck on her high stiletto heels. On her hand is an elegant glass of red wine. Jaskier can just _tell_ she's expensive. 

When she parts her lips, Jaskier swallows his insecurity. 

"Can I help you?" Her accent is rich and sharp and... so fucking pretty it hurts. 

Jaskier really wishes he just stayed home and threw up. He shoves the thought away and gathers his voice, reddening under the woman's impatient stare.

"I— Uhm, hi, I'm— I'm Jaskier. Uh."

Her perfect eyebrow arches as gracefully as an eyebrow can arch. She regards him with some thought, steps back, and allows Jaskier to enter. Feeling ashamed at how he looked, Jaskier walks in. 

Yennefer is already walking back to the kitchen, hips swaying. "Geralt's out on some family business, but it shouldn't take long. He'll be back in four hours, just in time for sunrise."

Jaskier blinks. He feels out of place. He follows the woman and nods, gulping.

"And, I— Uhm, I'm sorry but who are you?"

This time, the woman blinks as she settles in on the cushioned seat on the breakfast bar, pausing to pour another glass of wine for Jaskier. She quirks a questioning eyebrow.

"He hasn't told you about me?" She makes it sound like he should know. 

Jaskier shakes his head, uncomfortable. "No, I'm sorry."

She waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. I'm Yennefer, I cover for him and watch Ciri when he needs me to."

"Oh." Jaskier accepts the glass of wine she hands him. He does not drink from it. He tries to catch a better glimpse of the bottle she poured it from to count the calories, but it is already turned away.

"And me? He's told you about me?" Jaskier assumes Geralt has, because Yennefer let him walk in with just his name. But he asks anyway.

Yennefer laughs. The sound belongs in a choir. 

"Ah, yes, the Jaskier who stole his heart." She sips from her glass with a swift smile. "He doesn't shut up about you."

The thought makes him feel warm. He stares sweetly at the wine glass he's holding. "Yeah, he's lovely...."

Yennefer grins and rolls her eyes. "I didn't know you regularly show up on his doorstep when the rest of the world is asleep, though."

Jaskier blushes at the implication. "No, I don't. I just... had a rough night, is all." 

Yennefer sighs and gulps down the rest of her glass. She waves at Jaskier in an odd gesture. Jaskier only blinks.

"Well?" She inquires. "Talk to me. That's why you're here for, isn't it?"

Jaskier stares. "I, uh, I'm actually here to talk to Geralt."

Yennefer shrugs. "I won't force you, but I'm here, Geralt's gone for another four hours, and I'm drunk enough to feel at least a third of an emotion, so, well. If you want to talk I'm, like, gonna be drinking until Geralt gets here."

She refills her glass, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of the calories in every serving. It's in the triple digits. He places his glass of wine down and pushes it away. He's not ready for anything over fifty calories right now.

Yennefer does not say anything about the refusal of wine. 

"If not," she offers, as if sensing his sudden unease, "I'm sure you know where Geralt's bedroom is. Feel free to sleep there tonight."

She eyes him curiously and frowns, sympathetic "Sorry for the bad night."

Jaskier smiles. He knows where Geralt's bedroom is but he does not walk away.

He looks at Yennefer and considers the fact that Geralt trusts her enough to trust her with his daughter, that Geralt trusts her enough to tell her about their relationship.

Geralt trusts her. 

"I'm bulimic."

Yennefer swallows the wine in her mouth quickly and places the glass on the breakfast bar less elegantly than before.

"Holy shit, okay, I didn't expect that."

Jaskier laughs.

"Yeah." It's easier to talk to a stranger. He's got less to lose. "And, uhm, passively suicidal? I don't know, sometimes I don't wanna live. Just sometimes, though. Not right now. Therapy teaches me how to manage."

Yennefer stares at him. She looks at his still-full glass sitting on the marble top like it suddenly clicks in her head why he refused it. 

"Fuck, uhm. How are you feeling right now?"

Oddly enough, Jaskier feels more at ease, seeing Yennefer clumsily trip over her thoughts over what to say. It makes her seem more human, less like the perfect goddess he thought of her as.

Jaskier laughs.

"You don't have to play therapist," he teases, giggling. "I have Triss for that. Just... be yourself? I guess?"

Yennefer gives him a blank expression. "Oh, darling, you don't wanna see me as 'myself.' It's horrible, I'd much rather be drunk."

Jaskier snorts. Yennefer smirks. 

"No, but really," she says. "How are you feeling?"

Jaskier shrugs. "Don't know. Hungry, maybe."

Yennefer tilts her head. "We have eggs in the fridge. You can cook something if you want."

He's amused by how she says it. He smiles and comments, "No one's ever told me to cook my own meals before. Usually they go, 'Do you want me to make you something?' "

Another blank stare. "Do I look like someone with a big enough heart to cook for someone?"

Jaskier snorts again. "Point taken. You're _very_ scary and _very_ hot."

Yennefer raises a glass to that. "Seriously, though, if you are going to cook, I like my eggs scrambled and with a scandalous amount of pepper." She winks.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. "I have a feeling you manipulated this entire conversation just so I could cook for you," he jokes. She chortles.

He takes out the eggs and pan anyway. Just enough for Yennefer. 

She eyes the ingredients for one person. "Hey, if you just cook for me and not yourself, I'll feel guilty."

"No, I can't eat," he refuses, warming the pan on low over the stove as he prepares the eggs. 

Yennefer arches her eyebrow. "Why not?" 

And he doesn't think before answering. "Self control."

He regrets the words immediately. Partly because it's the truth. Mostly because he doesn't want anyone to know it's the truth. Yennefer observes him, a look he can't quite place in her eyes.

He feels like she'll be the next Katrina, like she'll force him to shove breakfast down his throat, like she'll threaten to have him institutionalized if he doesn't finish the fucking cheeseburger.

But Yennefer only shrugs. She is not Katrina.

She carries on drinking her wine. "Sounds dumb."

Jaskier freezes. He's too busy being offended to be afraid. 

"Wh— _What_?" 

Yennefer meets his gaze. "Sounds dumb," she repeats, eyes daring him to challenge her. 

He feels like he has to. He's too angry to do anything _but_ challenge her.

"I— You— _You wouldn't know_."

Yennefer's gaze turns stony. She sighs, turns her palm up, so Jaskier can see the insides of her forearm and wrist. She traces darkened scars on her wrist.

"From one broken person to another," she jokes before offering Jaskier her wrist.

"I thought these were for control, too." Her eyes dig deep into his. "I think I'd know."

"Fuck," Jaskier curses. He places the eggs on the pan and it sizzles satisfyingly. A pause. "What happened to you?"

"Depression," Yennefer shrugs casually. "Childhood trauma, abuse, neglect, disability. It piled up. I know how it feels to crave self control, and I know that it's dumb and it's bullshit and you should probably scramble the eggs, they're starting to burn."

Jaskier works over the stove.

"It's different," he insists, following her advice on the cooking. "Different control."

Yennefer shrugs. "Still stupid."

Jaskier stays quiet. Yennefer does not. 

"Self control." She scoffs. "It was _my_ lazy excuse."

Jaskier shoots her a glare. She smirks. 

"Think about it," she laughs bitterly.

"I would rather not," he tries. 

She doesn't relent. "I thought if I couldn't do something then I lacked self control. In my case, it was hurt myself. And you, well, it's starve yourself, isn't it?"

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. "And also vomit."

Yennefer laughs. "Yeah, that, too. But here's the thing: self control. _Who are you taking back the control from?_ It's a war between yourself where there are no winners. Self control." She laugh bitterly, humorlessly. "It's self sabotage."

Jaskier considers her words. He stares at her like she hung the stars. He presents her scrambled eggs. Self control. Self sabotage. 

He looks at his untouched wine, looks at Yennefer, looks at the bottle. He drinks. Yennefer offers her some of her breakfast. He eats a small piece.

He does not self sabotage. Not tonight.

* * *

Days go by at first. 

Then weeks.

Then months. 

And Jaskier realizes he's happier. A year goes by. 

He ends the weekly therapy sessions with Triss, and she's happy to see him go because that means she's done her job. Sometimes, in rougher days, he calls her again. 

Katrina apologizes to him. She's been reading up on eating disorders and she recognizes what she did was shitty and gross. Jaskier forgives her. She starts being more open minded and works on being a better friend. She's well meaning and they hang out on Mondays. 

Mostly, he eats regularly. Sometimes, he doesn't. The times he doesn't gets increasingly rarer as the days go by in a happy blur. 

Ciri seems to have taken inspiration from his recovery. They learn from each other's healthy decisions, like it's a friendly competition. When they have dinner, Jaskier takes a second helping. Ciri smirks and helps herself to another as well. 

One day, she calls him "dad." And she doesn't stop. Jaskier does not ever want her to stop. 

He moves in with Geralt a year and half into their relationship. He takes down the quotes and posters from his office walls and plasters them around Geralt's room. Their room. 

With Geralt, he doesn't feel empty. He feels warm and infinite and so, so great. He wants to live forever. He wants to love forever. He wants and he wants and he wants and Geralt gives effortlessly.

Yennefer likes indulging him with dark humor and jokes. She laughs about her scars because she doesn't want to cry about them. Jaskier still cries about his size, sometimes, but Yennefer teaches him how to laugh. She teaches him to bicker and grin and move on. 

Another year passes. 

He eats when he's hungry and drinks when he's thirsty. He rarely ever gets thoughts telling him to kneel on cold tile and let bile pour over his mouth, but when he does, he knows better than to listen to them. 

He looks at the mirror and sees someone beautiful, someone worth loving, someone deserving of life and happiness. Someone good. 

Occasionally, he misses the feel of his ribs under his fingertips or the look of prominent collarbones and fingers, but then he sees Ciri beam at him as she proudly crosses off a day in her chart with green marker, or he feels Geralt press a kiss to his neck, or he makes Yennefer laugh with a terrible joke and he realizes... there's nothing in the world that's going to make him shorten his time with his family. 

Jaskier recognizes that the urges to throw up after a dinner or the urges to go days without food may never really leave, but he's got support and love and friendship and family, and with those things, he realizes that while the urges may never truly go away, he can work his hardest on acknowledging them as unhealthy and paying them no mind. 

Jaskier wants to live. He wants to wake up next to Geralt and have breakfast with Ciri every day. He wants to catch up with Triss and have coffee with Katrina. He wants to laugh with Yennefer until his sides hurt with joy and he wants to exist as happily as he can. 

Jaskier wants to exist. 

Jaskier wants to live.

He recovers. He lives.

**Author's Note:**

> i made this because i wanted sad ed jaskier bc im a sad ed alyssa so i went "give me sad jaskier content or give me death 🔪" and i was immediately murdered. gotta do everything myself in this fucking house 😤😤
> 
> but uh yes! i wrote it its done i wanted to get rid of it and i dont really have much else to say i think,,,, just know it gets better :) it really does
> 
> if ur interested my tumblr is @skittlesun!! but plspls follow my witcher sideblog lol im trying to gain more followers there :) its @yenneferal
> 
> i love u, stop lying to ur therapists, and have a good rest of ur day. i love u. i really do. 
> 
> -alyssa 😌🌼


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